


leapfrogging

by wafflepancake



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coming of Age, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27403132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflepancake/pseuds/wafflepancake
Summary: Osamu disentangles himself in his last year of high school. (Osamu-centric, with a sprinkling of brotherly UST.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	leapfrogging

“So Kita-san’s goin’ to agricultural university, huh? You think we should skip university after all this, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks on the way home one evening. He’s tossing a volleyball into the air as they walk – Osamu thinks it’s basically a compulsion at this point – and his breath is coming out as white, smoky puffs as he speaks. It’s late February now, and it’s freezing cold. Osamu just wants to get home. “I don’t think either of us would do well in school for another three years. I mean, you’re failin’ math. And I personally don’t care about studyin’, if I had to be honest.”

“I don’t know if that’s right for me,” Osamu says. He’s been replaying that memory in his mind for months – that evening in the gym when Kurosu made that destiny-defining announcement and the sky had been clear as he stood at the gym doors pondering it afterwards, with Atsumu yapping like a maligned puppy from behind him.

“What d’you mean,” says Atsumu. His tone is light, but his line of sight is fixated on Osamu, unwavering, like he’s looking down the barrel of a rifle. Osamu knows the rumours have been swirling. He’s been thinking about this for a while, anyway. He clarifies himself with absolute, defiant certainty.

“Oh, so mom knew,” Atsumu snaps when they get home and then yells about what Osamu said so loudly that Osamu’s certain the whole neighbourhood can hear it.

“Well, not all of it,” says their mother.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” says their father from his armchair, watching the news, but he says it in such a good-natured tone that it ends up posing no threat. Sometimes Osamu wonders if Atsumu wouldn’t have turned out to be such a difficult person if their parents had been stricter with them as children, and then he wouldn’t have had so much shit to deal with. But nobody’s perfect.

“Yeah, okay,” says Atsumu. “I’m not goin’ to talk to anybody.” He stomps off upstairs.

“He’ll get over it,” Mom says cheerfully. “Osamu, be a dear and bring me my readin’ glasses.”

“Why’re you bein’ such a fuckin’ baby about this,” Osamu snarls, trailing after Atsumu after dutifully fetching the glasses. “I don’t know if you understand anything I said, but it’s not like I specifically chose not to care about this –”

“Oh, but you made a choice,” Atsumu interrupts, angrily undoing his tie.

“What’s great about lyin’ to yourself? If you’d made an important decision like this about your life, I’d want you to tell me too,” Osamu says, feeling his patience slip away. It’s impressive how Atsumu manages to push his buttons all the time just by being his blockheaded self. “And I’d support you. If you said you were goin’ to quit volleyball to become a fisherman, I’d fuckin’ buy you a fishin’ boat and send you on your way.”

“The problem is that I’m never goin’ to quit volleyball, and you never gave me any indication you were about to do so either,” Atsumu replies, raising his voice.

“Not everything is about you,” Osamu says.

Atsumu doesn’t respond. His stone-facedness is reminiscent of his worst years in middle school – cold, reticent, antisocial – and Osamu realises that he hasn’t seen this expression on Atsumu in a while. It’s not really something he had specifically overlooked; Atsumu really only throws genuine shitfits about volleyball, and playing volleyball at Inarizaki hasn’t given him much of a reason to whine about being surrounded by scrubs.

“I see how it is,” says Atsumu eventually.

“The hell you do,” Osamu says without thinking, and immediately regrets it when Atsumu turns away from him without a fight. Screw this – he’s put up with Atsumu’s nonsense for as long as he’s lived, so it’s time Atsumu really learnt how to deal with things he doesn’t like for a change without having Osamu to clean up after him. If it means they’re never going to talk ever again, then so be it.

*

Except they do fight the next week, in front of the entire volleyball club, and this time Kita isn’t there to step in between them on behalf of Kurosu, who’s actually really a wuss. Suna posts the video on Instagram. They both go to the nurse’s office to get patched up afterwards, and it’s so stupid that Osamu bursts out laughing while the nurse ices a bruise and Atsumu starts laughing too and she looks at them as if they’ve grown two heads (so four), and at dinner Atsumu gives an extra fried shrimp to Osamu to make up for being a complete shithead. Osamu accepts it, because he’s the bigger person. Always been. Still, Atsumu’s outburst echoes in his ears, because it’s dumb as fuck. Competing to see who has the happier life – of course he’s going to lead a happy life. It’s only the entire reason he needs to move on from volleyball to do something more valuable with his time. 

Atsumu’s reacting better than he expected. That wasn’t one of those “fuck you for stealing my pudding” fights – it was existential. Atsumu’s been having wet dreams about going pro on the regular for the past few years, and Osamu supposes there might have been an assumption that they were both going to do this, held not only by them both, but by people that they both knew in general. Maybe he should have said something earlier, but he didn’t know any more about how he really felt than Atsumu did, and hindsight is always perfect.

No, but Atsumu’s behaving himself. He just sulks once in a while as if he remembers that something extremely unpleasant just happened to him and then goes back to being loud and boneheaded five minutes later, which Osamu finds mildly disturbing. But he doesn’t have the energy to worry about Atsumu, because now that he’s confessed himself, deciding exactly what he wants and needs to do in the coming year is a much more pressing issue.

He nonetheless feels the obligation to set the record straight, especially whenever he sees Atsumu glumly and neurotically buffing his nails, which is one of Atsumu’s most noticeable expressions of displeasure. He broaches the issue when they’re on the bus to school one morning, when Atsumu’s got his nail buffer out and is solemnly grooming them so they’ll be in shape just in time for morning practice.

“I don’t hate volleyball,” he says quietly, careful not to disturb the other passengers.

“I know that.”

“It’s just that,” Osamu continues carefully, not because he’s considering Atsumu’s feelings, but because he’s working through his own thoughts, “if I do this my whole life, I won’t be able to spend all my time thinkin’ about what I like more. Which is food.”

“I already know that too,” Atsumu says darkly. “That you’re a gigantic glutton.”

Osamu sighs. He’s already exasperated.

“So do you know exactly what you’re gonna do?” Atsumu asks, glancing away from his perfect nails.

Osamu looks back at Atsumu. He’s had a billion ideas so far, yes, but all of them are just that, ideas. Nothing concrete that he can even try to put into action, not even in the smallest of ways. Everything is attractive to him – working as a food promoter, a chef, a patissiere, a barista; and even if he’s chosen his line of work, he can’t figure out if he’d be more interested in Japanese cuisine or Western cuisine or other types of Asian cuisine. The possibilities are endless. Maybe he should be a farmer, like Kita aspires to. He just knows that it needs to be something he feels strongly about. He looks back at Atsumu and his nail buffer and wonders what it’d be like to go above and beyond with something. With volleyball, he’s never really needed to push himself.

“No,” he answers finally, “not exactly yet.”

“Yeah?” asks Atsumu, raising an eyebrow. “Well, you’re on your own, buddy.”

*

It’s not as if it’s all been just fun and games for Osamu. That week in December when Atsumu was invited for that youth camp, he was left to his own devices to do some serious soul-searching of his own. Atsumu gave him shit for it – not getting invited too, that is – but on the morning of the first day itself, it was Osamu who had to wake Atsumu up at five a.m. so Atsumu could catch the train to Tokyo on time and not waste the ticket he’d already bought.

“What are you, my mom,” Atsumu had protested sleepily, clinging stubbornly to his blankets.

“I could have left you here to rot,” Osamu said, and shoved Atsumu again, harder. “I don’t need this.”

There wasn’t anything noteworthy about setting in Atsumu’s place at practice. He did a decent job, since he’s often thought of as the team’s backup setter. No, it was the time he got to spend alone that was the irregularity.

It wasn’t like Osamu had never walked home alone or spent time alone without Atsumu, but it was the first time that they were spending that many days apart. He’d thought that he’d be happy to have some peace and quiet. He took a bath and mulled it over while watching the tiles fog up with large, white clouds of steam. Peace and quiet he did get, but what Atsumu’s absence translated to, he found, wasn’t happiness. It was space. For the first time, he had space.

The house felt twice as large without Atsumu in it. At bedtimes he slid into the bottom bunk for convenience’s sake because Atsumu isn’t around – never really liked having to climb up to the top bunk – and realised that volleyball might be a foregone conclusion that went unquestioned, just because he hadn’t had any opportunity to do so. He thought about how Atsumu obviously loved volleyball just that bit more and thought about the tiny gap that had emerged between him and Atsumu and how it was inevitably going to grow wider and wider in future. Volleyball clinics since elementary school after watching dad watch the local team on TV, watching Brazil vs. USA in the 2008 Olympics with Atsumu’s face glued to the screen, feverishly muttering, “Don’t give up, Giba… don’t give up…”, making everything about the question of who the better player was, and by extension who the better person was, making volleyball the judge and jury of every single point of contention between them because there wasn’t any other common standard by which they could do it. And why were they competing about anything in the first place? Who started this shit? Sprinting each other to arbitrary finish lines and past them, not really caring what position he played because it just came that naturally to him and gleefully pissing Atsumu off in the process, two years undefeated regional champions in middle school with the trophies sitting next to Atsumu’s numerous awards for Best Setter in the reading room, and then, with one simple, inconspicuous twist in the fabric of their reality, Osamu came to notice, wide awake with his eyes on the ceiling of Atsumu’s bunk, that the powers that be glanced into the crystal ball of his soul and informed him that things had to proceed differently than planned. Atsumu was stupid, so he just followed his instincts, and volleyball was that instinct for him. But Osamu hadn’t been putting in nearly enough thought into what he’d been doing everyday, killing time doing things that he just passably enjoyed.

“Yeah? You running a franchise? I can see that,” Suna commented as they walked back home from practice one afternoon, slurping on his carton of strawberry milk after Osamu joked about the idea. “Though I think you’d just eat the products sooner than you can sell them.”

“You can see that? What franchise is it?” Osamu asked then. “D’you think I have the chops to run a Sukiya branch? I like their gyudon the best.”

Suna just gave him a weird look.

“Yoshinoya’s better,” he said finally. “You’re not serious about this? King Jerkface is gonna lose his shit.”

“‘Course not,” said Osamu. He hadn’t really come to a decision.

But Atsumu called home that evening and bragged about meeting the kid whose team beat Ushiwaka in the prefecturals, and then subsequently making fun of him, and said that Sakusa was grumpier than usual and he hoped it stayed this way until the actual Spring High. Jabbered about how Sakusa was probably nursing a broken heart over not seeing Ushiwaka at the last tournament of his high school career. The excitement with which he relayed it over the phone made him feel far away from Osamu, which he was, hundreds of miles away, and Osamu recalled the feeling of nonchalance when he realised that he just didn’t care about any of this as much as he thought he did. People always did say he had less of a presence than Atsumu did when they watched their matches. Maybe they said that for a reason. He entertained Atsumu for five more minutes, sniped at him a bit as he was wont to do, and then ate some pudding to cut through the bitterness.

It doesn’t occur to him to tell Atsumu any of this, though. He’s not sure Atsumu wants to hear any of his reasoning, and he doesn’t think he needs to explain himself anyhow, in any way.

*

Osamu’s fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror when he realises something’s off.

“Something’s wrong,” he says as Atsumu walks past. “I look different.”

“Do you?” Atsumu says, peering into the glass. “You look as idiotic as usual.”

“If I look idiotic, then so do you.”

“Uh, I am definitely the better-lookin’ twin. Think it’s got something to do with the way our bangs part in the opposite direction.”

“Your hair is piss yellow,” says Osamu. It earns him a punch to the bicep without warning, and Atsumu walks off without saying anything else. Fuck, that hurt. Osamu shakes his head and stares deeper at his own reflection. Something’s different, he just doesn’t know what. Like the contours of his face have morphed somewhat. He squints, then gives up.

“Really? That’s a pity,” says a reporter from a local TV channel, cornering them at the Summer Interhigh. “I think we were all anticipating a partnership from the two of you in the professional leagues. You have such a natural talent for the sport.”

_As opposed to not having a natural talent for cooking?_ Osamu thinks snidely, but keeps it to himself. He hopes his sour expression is broadcast for all to see.

“Yeah, he’s a traitor,” says Atsumu cheerfully, puffing out his chest so the “1” emblazoned on his jersey stands out even more. The reporter records this soundbite eagerly.

“We’re committed to continuin’ the excellent tradition set forth for us by our seniors,” Osamu substitutes emotionlessly, because this is what he’s had to do ever since Atsumu was given the position of captain and allowed to be his baselessly boastful and confident self, and Osamu was handed the position of vice-captain, which meant that he had to put everything Atsumu said into a reasonableness translator.

“We’re goin’ to kick everyone’s asses out there,” says Atsumu.

“If you’re goin’ to do this professional volleyball player thing, you should get better PR training,” Osamu tells him after the reporter leaves, satisfied with all of Atsumu’s no-filter statements. It’s such a complete 180 from Kita that Osamu can only feel embarrassed.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, or whatever it is that they say, amirite,” replies Atsumu. “Anyone who watches sports watches it to be entertained.”

Karasuno doesn’t make it to the tournament. The representative from Miyagi, Date Tech, is eliminated in the quarterfinals. “Scrubs,” Atsumu mutters quietly when he learns of the news, then again when he watches the end of Date Tech’s game in the bleachers. “Ah, I can’t watch. Let’s go get something to eat, ‘Samu.”

For all of Atsumu’s braggadocio, Inarizaki clinches third place, which isn’t the result anyone wants, and they only clinched third place because Atsumu got so fucking annoyed about not making the finals that they cleaned house in two lightning-quick sets played without feeling, which, apparently and ironically, gets them good results. Then it’s back to Hyogo to review what went wrong and decide what the roadmap for the rest of the year looks like. There’s still Nationals, and then preliminaries for the Spring High.

There’s an unprecedented sense of urgency about everything. It’s still very much the team philosophy to quickly move on from both victories and defeats, because dwelling on past results for the sake of dwelling on them is a waste of time and adds no value to the learning process. But Osamu now experiences the exigencies that only a third-year high schooler can go through, when just a few months ago these matters never even crossed his mind – the short span of a year within which there are apparently several issues that require his fullest attention, like entrance exams and career planning and getting a sports team whipped into shape. Apparently it does pour when it rains. He wonders how Kita and Aran and the rest of the third-years did it last year – they did not so much as say a word about how much it felt like being in a pressure cooker. It occurs to him to ask for advice, but he doesn’t want to come across as bothersome, especially when most of the upperclassmen are just settling into new roles in their own lives.

He’s taking cooking classes, too, actually. So that’s one more thing to squeeze into his schedule. Mom is a great cook, but not so much of a great instructor, and to really get the hang of the basics, he needs to get some proper training. Actually, the recommendation came from Atsumu, of all people. Back at the start of the year he handed Osamu a pamphlet out of nowhere.

“Kobayashi’s sister just opened up this place. Made him hand out these flyers to everyone in class,” he explained curtly, as if he didn’t give a fuck about it. “Thought you might be interested.”

So every weekend Osamu goes to this cooking studio in the town two stations away, and when he gets home he repeats whatever he’s learnt that day again, because he’s really serious about it, and he wants to prove to Atsumu, who watches him like a hawk every time he gets in the kitchen, that he can do this.

“So this is fun to you,” asks Atsumu, braced against the kitchen counter, watching him shred some carrots in the name of improving his knife skills. It’s a lot of carrots. Osamu found them going for cheap at the supermarket in the morning. He’s going to have to find some way to use them up.

“As fun as it is for us to toss a volleyball around, yes,” Osamu says defensively.

“This what you learn in cookin’ class?” Atsumu adds. “I’m not impressed. You’re just choppin’ shit up.”

“Please just go away if you’re only interested in makin’ fun of me. I’m actually doin’ something productive here.”

“Fine,” says Atsumu peevishly, leaving Osamu to his own devices. “This is boring anyway. Like watchin’ paint dry.”

“I’m sayin’ it now. Don’t you dare eat anything I make.”

He accidentally cuts himself after Atsumu leaves in a huff, and cleans it up as quietly as possible so Atsumu doesn’t notice. Half the carrots go in the trash, and he washes up the equipment with a bandage around his index finger, cursing quietly.

*

Atsumu has a real chance of making it to the U19 squad. He’s called up to another national-level camp during the summer holidays after the Interhigh, and Osamu spends the week captaining the team in lieu while Kurosu piles the pressure on him, slapping his back and constantly laughing as he calls on Osamu to rise to the station of the team’s ace. They do laps around the school in the scorching heat and Osamu makes a beeline for the communal sink every afternoon after finishing them, sticking his head underneath the tap and washing out the heatwave with icy cold water. And then afterwards at home it’s helping mom out with dinner, julienning vegetables and browning meat and learning the relationship between oil and salt and sugar.

At the end of the week Atsumu returns home with a glint in his eye. He strolls into the house as Osamu’s scrolling through a directory of schools in the region on his laptop, not sure whether he should go to culinary school full-time or part-time as he picks up another degree – business administration, maybe? He dumps his stuff in the hamper, gets a drink, and then looks Osamu right in the eye as he sits down at the dining table, right across from Osamu.

“What,” asks Osamu, annoyed.

“I got approached for tryouts,” he says smugly. “Two teams to boot. One in September and one in October.”

Osamu knows why Atsumu is bragging about this. All the times he’s tried to get Osamu to acknowledge that he’s doing better, or make Osamu jealous of his progress – none of that has mattered until now. Osamu glances at his shortlist of schools. Right now, for once, he’s the one who’s trailing behind.

“Well, congrats,” he says anyway, devoid of any ill intention. It’s that feeling again, or vacuum of feeling, from way back, the surprising lack of any annoyance or melancholy or negative sentiment, just an overwhelming okayness. What’s wrong with him? “That’s great news. What teams? Have you told mom or dad?”

Atsumu opens his mouth and closes it, then repeats that motion so he looks rather like a goldfish, then huffs because it’s clearly not the response he wants. He says lamely, “Well, I was about to, but you were sitting here when I came in, so I just told you first.”

Osamu nods. He picks up his phone and waves it in Atsumu’s direction. “Well, mom’s out shopping. You want to call her? Or wait for her to come back so you can deliver the good news in person?”

Now that Osamu’s hands are actually important to him for the purpose of making food he can, somewhat grudgingly, understand where Atsumu’s coming from. His grudge doesn’t even lie with Atsumu; it lies with himself, and he’s never going to admit this out loud, but he feels like the asshole here. This happens about one in ten times, maybe. But Atsumu’s still an idiot, and nothing will ever make up for his crappy manners or his lack of tact and common sense, and Osamu’s keeping a firm stance on that. That’s something that won’t ever change.

Not that Osamu’s hands were never important to him. What he’s come to learn is that his hands perform a different role when he’s cooking, specifically – the care with which he wields a knife with its handle in the firm grip of his palm, or salts and massages a piece of tenderloin, or dips a finger into a dish full of condiment to taste-test it – every action requires nuance. He knows this, of course, instinctively, from playing a sport that requires so much contact between his fingers and a ball that’s tossed around for hundreds of times during a single match. Eating is easy. Making delicious food is hard. He’s still lacking something, on top of all that experience he’s yet to garner. Everyone he’s asked and sought knowledge from, from mom to his slightly condescending cooking instructor, cookbooks by celebrated chefs, food bloggers on the internet, all say the same thing. Good food made from good ingredients, with careful attention to detail at every step of the way, into the stomachs of diners whose enjoyment and wellbeing is the key priority of the chef. You start with the process of making, with your hands, with which you shape your know-how into a dish that feeds somebody you care about.

Atsumu loves volleyball. Osamu’s always known this, and he knew this when he realised Atsumu loved volleyball more than he did, but now he can appreciate it. Atsumu would probably even have loved volleyball even if he were an only child and never had anybody to partner with. One afternoon he gets subbed off court during a practice match, so he sits on the bench by the courtside and squirts sports drink down his throat and just watches, without thinking or analysing anything. It’s remarkable how much giving up on volleyball to do something else has changed his perspective on it. He feels less resentful about Atsumu’s antics, though he now bears the key responsibility of reining him in – and why? He’s not even captain – and every time he witnesses Atsumu handle the ball he thinks he can acknowledge how special it is. Volleyball has always been a matter of straightforward logic to him – three touches to a play, a receive, a set, and an attempt at scoring or deflecting, and what Atsumu does obviously isn’t anything different from how any other player would do it. But he loves it so much and has loved it for such a long time that he knows exactly how much energy goes into a play and how it affects the rest of the game. He takes a receive and turns it into a point for his scorer any way he can. From the perspective of an observer, doing something seemingly difficult with such ease can resemble magic. Osamu thinks he’s always known; his rivalry with Atsumu just took precedence and prevented him from admitting it. Now, though, they have a different sort of rivalry, and with its commencement Osamu’s field of vision widens.

He taps back in during the next set. He’s had the habit of losing steam halfway during a match, but somehow it feels different today, like he’s especially energised after just taking a short break. When the toss comes to him, he doesn’t feel burdened to score. He can meet Atsumu halfway, he thinks. Sometimes, when he’s on the receiving end of the ball, trying to pull off an attack, taking a step backwards is the wise thing to do.

*

Osamu walks in on Atsumu jerking off in the bathroom one night. Peering into the mirror above the sink with a hand down his sweatpants.

“Fuckin’ knock,” Atsumu yelps. “Can’t a guy get some privacy?”

“Fuckin’ lock the door,” Osamu snaps.

They stand there for several more seconds staring at each other and waiting for the other to back off until Atsumu finally says, “Well, what are you waitin’ for? Shut the door.”

“I need to pee,” Osamu says incredulously. 

“Just shut it and you can pee and I’ll mind my own business over here,” replies Atsumu. 

Gingerly Osamu walks past Atsumu and takes a piss and flushes the toilet, and when he’s done Atsumu is still there. Osamu approaches the sink and Atsumu scoots over a wildly generous inch, hand still moving, so Osamu just lunges over for the tap to wash his hands. He ends up asking Atsumu if he needs help and sticking a hand down Atsumu’s boxers as Atsumu rests his forehead on Osamu’s shoulder, producing the occasional soft, needy noise. It’s not like they’ve never jerked each other off in the past to the porn mags other kids passed around class, so this isn’t out of left field, but things have been weird between them for half a year now even if they’ve sort of made peace about it, the two of them going off to do their own thing. Kind of as if a psychic rift has opened up where there wasn’t one before. So this is the closest they’ve been to each other the whole year, kind of, Osamu realises, and it’s a little fucked up how this is the way Osamu realises it. Maybe they need to talk. Osamu doesn’t know how to go about it, though. Neither of them are big on talking as problem-solving.

“You need help with that?” Atsumu asks as Osamu washes his hands again, unexpectedly decent about the whole thing as he tugs on the drawstrings on his sweatpants afterwards.

“No,” Osamu says. He’ll just ignore it and hopefully it’ll go away. “I’m sleepy. Let’s just go to bed.”

Aran sends them tickets for a match, so they head down to the Falcons’ stadium in Osaka with Suna the following week. Kita and Oomimi are there too, so the fear of god prevents the three of them from making a ruckus like they planned to. Aran’s been getting a lot of attention as a rookie this season, and watching him as a spectator and not a fellow player, his kills make Osamu’s hairs stand on end. They’ve gotten even better. They’re faster and more powerful and Osamu again feels that renewed pressure to live up to his standard.

“Shitty ‘Samu,” Atsumu murmurs, reading his mind, “you’ll never spike like that.”

Suna snickers, shoving more popcorn into his mouth. What amazing teammates he has.

The Falcons win the match 3 – 1, and they stand around waiting for the crowd to subside so they can go say hi to Aran.

“I heard you made up your mind,” says Kita. “Culinary school, huh?”

“Yeah,” Osamu says, then realises that Kita is waiting expectantly for a follow-up. “Are you goin’ to tell me to think twice about it? Because there’s a lot of people sayin’ that. I’d like your opinion, Kita-san.”

“Oh, who am I to tell you what to do with your life,” Kita replies, watching as Aran is cornered by a few fans. “The most important thing is for you to decide for yourself, ain’t it? And then, once you’ve made a decision, work towards your goal steadily, and remember that success is attained not by reachin’ that milestone, but by consistently practisin’ the habits that are required for you to properly do what it is that you want to do everyday.” He turns shrewd eyes upon Osamu so quickly that Osamu feels the whiplash from his sudden movement. “If you’re lookin’ for a supplier, I’m always open to discussions. We grow a variety of crops on the Kita family farm.”

Atsumu is thick-skinned enough to take it seriously when Aran introduces him to his teammates on the Falcons, who laugh and ask if the current best setter at the high school level was amenable to trying out for the team. They’re just joking, dumbass. But Osamu decides that since Atsumu’s professional life is now no longer any of his business he should quit it with the meanspiritedness, and instead approaches Aran for tips instead (conclusion: lift more weights, which Osamu hates). That’s the funny thing about sports, or about any other thing that’s about getting results, he supposes. There’s no such thing as suddenly psyching yourself up the morning of a match. You just have to get out there and do it, and if you’re not up to it, then you won’t be able to do it either way. That state of mind has to be sustained the entire time.

Anyway, the next time they go to practice Osamu sucks it up and actually goes ahead and uses his head while he’s playing. Eight years of volleyball means accumulated habit and experience, but instead of this instinct, he tries to make calculated decisions. It improves his game in some ways and costs him in some others, because he’s not used to some of what he’s trying to do differently, but the vice-captain being very active on the court provides an obvious boost to morale. It doesn’t seem Atsumu’s noticed any change in the general flow of the game – or, knowing him, he’s chalking it up to his own skills – but it’s good enough for Osamu to know his own conscience is clear.

Atsumu asks him to help out again a couple nights later.

“Do you, like, wanna,” he asks awkwardly, hovering near the bathroom door and hunched over so his hard-on isn’t so conspicuous. God only knows what the hell he’d been watching, cooped up in his bunk minutes before. Osamu chooses to interpret it as an invitation to a friendly mutual rub-out instead of his brother soliciting him for sex. He gets up from his desk and follows Atsumu into the bathroom, where Atsumu just whips out his fucking dick with no preamble, biting on the tugged-up hem of his shirt so it doesn’t get in his way. Osamu just boggles for a bit, but fuck it, he’s already here. He grabs hold of Atsumu’s dick like it’s nothing and avoids thinking about what Atsumu’s thinking of, and when Atsumu’s fingers ghost the outline of his erection through his shorts he tries to think of something jiggly. Like pudding.

Eventually it’s Atsumu’s head rested on his shoulder again leaning in and he himself comes with his eyes closed. They take a minute to settle down, and Osamu doesn’t move. Atsumu is the one who breaks the silence.

“I can’t do this alone,” he mumbles into Osamu’s neck.

“You can too,” Osamu insists. He doesn’t know what Atsumu’s talking about – corralling the team to a victory at Nationals or the Spring High, going pro, life in general; jerking off, even? – but he says it anyway. And then he thinks he knows what Atsumu’s really talking about, and again, the defensive words spill out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare guilt-trip me.”

Atsumu makes a disgusted sound.

“Ugh, you ruined it,” he complains, pulling away from Osamu and reaching for the roll of toilet paper by his side. “Fuck you, ‘Samu. Seriously.”

“What’d I do,” snaps Osamu, nudging the tap with the back of his hand. He tries to come up with a justification for his reasoning as the sound of rushing water fills the bathroom and they soap their hands at the same time and rinse off without looking at each other. “I didn’t mean – you’re the one who was fine with us to competin’ while doin’ different things. So I’m just stickin’ to what you said.”

“I just wanted to whine and you won’t even let me do that,” says Atsumu, wiping his wet fingers off on Osamu’s face towel on purpose. Osamu pretends he doesn’t see that out of goodwill. He’ll get a new one from the dresser tomorrow morning. He walks out of the bathroom and waits for Atsumu to follow suit.

“I just meant you’re more than good enough to do this on your own,” he says, and turns back to see Atsumu looking genuinely astonished, silent from being tongue-tied. “Stop starin’ at me like that, you look like a goon. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way. I just said it too fast.”

“Then what was that shit about not guilt-trippin’ you?”

“You wanna watch a movie?” says Osamu, deflecting. He pulls his laptop off his desk. “I was gonna watch that new movie with Aragaki Yui in it. I found a link.”

“I don’t trust you,” says Atsumu, narrowing his eyes. “You’re bein’ way too nice about this.”

“Do you wanna watch it or not?”

They huddle together in the bottom bunk, lying prone with the laptop glaring at their faces in the dark to emulate the cinema experience. It’s a squeeze. They’re not kids anymore. The video takes an eternity to buffer and the frames freeze and jitter every two seconds, and Atsumu props his chin up on his forearms and frowns at the screen wordlessly. They get through half of the opening scene thanks to a two-minute streak of good luck, and then the screen freezes again.

“I’m just gonna get in your way,” says Osamu, fiddling with the play button. “You’re always talkin’ about not wantin’ to play scrubs and all. Y’know all those times I didn’t perform well in those games? Maybe I really wasn’t that interested, deep down. So you won’t have to play this scrub any more.” He pauses. “I tried, though. We’ve played together since we were in fourth grade. You know this. We beat a shit ton of teams together.”

“You could try harder,” Atsumu says.

“Yeah, it doesn’t work that way,” replies Osamu. “Don’t be a brat.”

“This is stupid,” Atsumu interjects as the buffering icon pops up onscreen. It looks like it’s there to stay. “Can we put something else on? The internet obviously doesn’t want to let you pirate this stupid movie. Because it’s illegal.”

Osamu switches to Youtube and Atsumu makes him put on last year’s Worlds finals.

“Think of it this way,” he says, trying to rationalise his thoughts. It’s been a terrible year vis-a-vis agonising over his life choices and how everything is going to work out. “I hate to say this, but clearly you’ve won the battle of the wills when it comes to volleyball, right? In terms of likin’ it more? So there’s all these people out there who are just as crazy about it as you are. You’re gonna have so many people to compete with. And as for me, I’m just now gettin’ started. And that’s better than never gettin’ started, wouldn’t you agree? ‘Tsumu?”

But Atsumu doesn’t respond. He’s fallen asleep. Osamu sighs. He’s wedged in between Atsumu and the wall. Well, at least Atsumu didn’t hear him concede anything. He shuts down the laptop, carefully places it at the corner of the mattress, and dozes off himself.

*

They don’t do so well at Nationals. They get eliminated in the second round, but then nobody gets as bothered about it as they did when they placed better in the Summer Interhigh, and Osamu now understands that the third-years didn’t breathe a single word about how much they were juggling because there simply wasn’t enough time for them to complain about it. Osamu certainly feels like time is passing him by like a supersonic jet.

_Volleyball Monthly_ runs a feature on the finalists for the Spring High, and in there is a bit of a commentary about the teams from Kansai and how it’s the last year in the high school circuit for the Miya twins, and how it’s the last year they’ll be playing together at all. Even Suna gets a little line for himself about how he’s getting scouted by an unnamed team from Tokyo, so naturally Atsumu throws a tiny tantrum about how he’s not hogging all of the spotlight when he’s got three teams and two universities going after him. As for Osamu, he’s just delighted to see a picture of Aran flagged in the corner as Inarizaki alumni.

Karasuno does squeeze their way into the tournament this time. They’ve lost their capable upperclassmen from the year before, and that captain of theirs who was one of the defensive cornerstones was clearly sorely missed throughout the year’s competitions, but Kageyama Tobio has grown in leaps and bounds – Atsumu met him again at the camp that took place earlier this year and, as a fellow setter, is now obsessed with squashing him, which is basically the only emotion he has towards any other fellow setter. Still, the memory of Kageyama’s quick set with Karasuno’s diminutive decoy is fresh in their minds, and coupled with the momentary humiliation of sending their own seniors off with a whimper last year, there’s an incentive for Osamu to do well here. 

“We _are_ going to kick their fuckin’ asses this year,” says Atsumu, probably already simulating the rematch in his mind.

Osamu shrugs. “Well, it depends which side of the draw they’re on, right? There might be a chance we don’t meet.” When Atsumu looks like he’s gonna launch himself at Osamu for saying that, he adds, “Look, eyes on the prize, okay? It’s our last Interhigh. We’ve never been champions before.” He allows himself one careless, irresponsible grin, though, and Atsumu responds in kind. “But yeah, let’s get them.”

The topic up for exam revision in math class the week after is functions. Osamu doesn’t understand a fucking thing, but the graph in his workbook catches his eye, one line crossing another at a single point and swooping upwards in a curve. It feels like a metaphor.

*

“I don’t wanna go to the fish market,” Atsumu whines. “It stinks, and I’m gonna come back home smellin’ like fish. Isn’t it enough that one of us suffers? And it’s like, fuckin’ five in the morning.”

“Just fuckin’ come along. You can just pretend you’re helpin’ to carry the groceries. It’s all about helpin’ out at home, just tell yourself that.”

Atsumu ends up almost slipping on the wet market floor and blames Osamu for it. He forgets about it as they tour the market, checking out all the different types of seafood that they haven’t seen before. They’re tempted to get the expensive stuff – crab, oysters, other delicious varieties of shellfish – but that’s really for special occasions anyway, and mom’s instructed them to just stock up on whatever she usually puts on the dining table. They marvel at a tank crawling with eels for minutes on end, and a smitten granny gives them a free portion of clams with their purchase of shrimp, because – her words – she doesn’t “meet twins often, and such charming ones at that”.

Osamu puts everything away when they get home but leaves some of it out to prep for lunch. It’s still early in the day, but if he’s going to work in food service, he might as well get used to actually doing work in the morning. All he has to do is cut up the salmon fillet and leave it aside, but he’s also got a few small fish to practise gutting and deboning on, and he could grill or bake that for breakfast. Maybe the clams will go in miso soup, for dinner. Atsumu takes a quick shower to “get rid of the fishy stench”, but then he peeks around at what Osamu’s doing afterwards, towel still around his neck with his hair damp.

“It’s kinda the same, ain’t it,” he comments, staring down at the chopping board.

“What is,” asks Osamu, running the knife down the side of the fish. Damn, he’s going to need to work on this more.

“Hmm? Cookin’,” Atsumu replies absentmindedly, seemingly fascinated by how the fish is getting its side split open. “You’re just usin’ your hands to do something different, right? Ooh, fancy knifework. Dammit, be bad at this too, shitty ‘Samu.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Osamu. He didn’t have to explain himself after all. The blade of the knife hews against a particularly sinewy bit of the meat, but he steadies it, and cuts clean through. He considers telling Atsumu to stop putting him down, but honestly, it’s just another of Atsumu’s childish provocations. A kid acting out. He can take this. He cleans out the fish without much fuss and lets Atsumu observe.

He can’t really see the way out of this yet. He’s only barely gotten to know himself anew, but that can wait – for the next few months, he’s going to focus on getting the team through the Interhigh. Inarizaki are still favourites to win, and they’ll be favourites to win for years to come after he and Atsumu have both graduated, but this is the last time he can personally help see to it. Besides, it’s his last chance to show Atsumu up in a legitimate contest. It’d be sweet if he could get more service aces during his final season, and Atsumu won’t be able to do anything about it after the season ends.

As for everything else, he’s got years ahead of him. Having a happier life, after all, isn’t something that can be accomplished quickly; if he’s learnt anything trying to figure himself out for the better part of this whole year, the process itself, while arduous, is what affords joy. The path he’s chosen won’t give him the jolts of adrenaline he usually gets after winning a game, but it’s something that suits him more now, that simple feeling of achievement after crafting something that he thinks is good enough to eat. Over time, he thinks, he’ll accumulate them and shape them into purpose. He already has a hazy idea of it. Eating makes him happy, so it only makes sense he’ll live life to the fullest making people happy with good food.

“I’m gonna grill this up for breakfast,” he says, continuing to work on the fish. “You wanna help me cook the rice? It’ll save on some time.”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” replies Atsumu, waltzing haughtily into the kitchen space. Osamu’s lived with him far too long not to notice the stiffness in his face, stifling a grin. He’ll let the sarcasm slide as well, not because of any overblown sense of benevolence. This, too, he considers a choice in the interest of their shared happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> headcanon: giba was atsumu's sexual awakening


End file.
